


Like Fine Wine

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Bloodplay, Kink Bingo 2013, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward studies him, that little smirk gracing his mouth. "Would you even believe me," he says, "if I were to tell you? I think not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Vampire!Coward! *snicker* Written for the 'bloodplay' prompt for my kink bingo card.

Coward watches him. 

He can feel his gaze, heated, on him far too often. His skin chars, burns, blackens under Coward's eyes. He feels seared down to the bone when Coward happens to be beside him, happens to brush against him, fabric brushing against fabric, but that's no protection. Coward isn't even warm; once, their hands had brushed, reaching absentmindedly for the same thing, and Coward's skin had been cool, cold even. 

He thinks Coward touched him on purpose that time. 

Coward watches him, and on rare occasions Blackwood makes the fatal mistake of meeting his eyes. They are blue, so blue, and they pin him down, freeze him where he stands. They are green, so green, and he drowns in them, gasping for air. They are gray, so gray, hazed and flecked with gold and so cold Blackwood thinks his skin will peel off, blood too frozen to run. Coward smiles, and amused little smile that Blackwood has to know more of. 

He catches Coward's arm one night, the lightest of touches, and Coward sways into his space as though he's hooked him from the inside. "A word, if you don't mind," he says. 

"But of course," Coward replies, a low murmur, a sidelong glance. 

He doesn't want to go for accusing, or fearful, or desperate, though he is all of those things. He aims for mere curiosity, and hasn't even the faintest hope he will achieve it. "What is it you want of me?" he asks, and no, he is not plaintive, that at least he has managed. 

Coward studies him, that little smirk gracing his mouth. "Would you even believe me," he says, "if I were to tell you? I think not." 

His eyes are heated, for once, and he looks at Blackwood, looks like he has seen other men look, looks like he _wants_ , and this is not entirely unexpected. This is not entirely unwanted. 

"I think I can guess," Blackwood says. Steps in, too close, and curls his hand around Coward's hip, leans in and kisses him. And Coward, oh, Coward doesn't even hesitate to open his mouth, to kiss back, to turn something Blackwood meant only to be a taste into something deep and hungry and filthy. 

Coward laughs against his mouth. "Something like that," he whispers. "Close enough." 

Close enough is not good enough, Blackwood thinks. "What, then?" he asks, lips still brushing Coward's with each word. 

Coward steps back, half a step, no more, and smiles at him. Grins at him, wide and white and his teeth are too sharp for his mouth. His teeth. His teeth are too sharp. He leans back in and nuzzles Blackwood's neck, draws a deep breath that's more a sniff, as though he's scenting him. Darts out his tongue, hot, wet, and licks the frightened, flickering pulse of Blackwood's neck. Blackwood shivers. 

"There are many names for what I am," Coward says, conversationally, breath ghosting against Blackwood's skin. "Are you going to run?" 

He settles his hand behind Coward's neck, pulls him back a breath. "No," he says, and kisses Coward again. 

This time, Coward shivers.

*

Later, later, so much later, Coward is sprawled half on top of him, bare skin pale and cool against Blackwood's, so slight. One hand is curled around Blackwood's wrist, fingers resting on the fine blueish veins. He doesn't wait for permission, doesn't even ask for it, simply pulls Blackwood's arm to him, nuzzling along the smooth skin of his inner arm, pressing small, soft, dry kisses down his arm, to the flutter pulse at Blackwood's wrist, trapped between his bones. 

"Coward," Blackwood whispers, but Coward pays him no mind, fixated; he opens his mouth and presses his tongue to the pulse, warm, wet, gentle, and Blackwood's breath catches in his throat. Coward's mouth moves upward, leaving a wet trail that cools rapidly, his skin goosepimpling in its wake, eyes closing as Coward settles in at the crook of his elbow, pressing his tongue to the faint tracery of veins with more insistence; his kisses become open mouthed, sucking, nipping, leaving reddish marks, the bloom of broken blood vessels beneath Blackwood's skin, laving the skin until it's so sensitive Blackwood wants to whimper. "Coward," he says again, almost a moan. 

This time, Coward looks up, his eyes wide and his face flushed. "Please," he whispers, and Blackwood barely thinks before he is nodding. Coward groans and presses his face into Blackwood's elbow, nipping, teasing, before he sinks his teeth in, creating a puncture from which blood wells rapidly, pulling back to watch for a moment as the blood beads and runs down Blackwood's skin, open mouthed and panting slightly, before he attacks the wound eagerly, fastening his mouth over the mark and sucking, his tongue working against the sensitive skin, and this time Blackwood does moan. 

The sound draws Coward's head up for a moment, gasping, before he presses his mouth back to Blackwood's skin. Blackwood can feel the pressure of him sucking, the wet slide of blood between lips and skin, the steady drag that is his blood being spilled, and finds he too is hungry, is wanting, again, despite their earlier dalliance. He lets Coward drink for several minutes more before he speaks. "Enough, Coward," and Coward obeys, as he promised, groaning reluctantly as he rips his mouth away from flesh with harsh breaths, tongue darting out to lap at the slowing droplets of blood. He rests his face just above Blackwood's elbow, looks up at him, his lips stained red, a smear of blood down his chin, the tip of his tongue curling out to lick at his lips, and Blackwood _wants_ , reaches down and hauls him up to press his lips to Coward's bloodstained ones, tasting his own blood from another's lips. He whispers obscenities between the licking kisses he presses around the edges of Coward's mouth. 

When he releases Coward, Coward's head lolls back, and he looks drugged, or drunk, flushed, his eyes half closed and his mouth open, swollen, wet, his whole body limp and pliant, pressed against Blackwood. Blackwood lowers him to the sheets, curls his body over Coward's. "Do you always get like this?" he asks, curious, fingers tracing the outline of Coward's mouth.

Coward smiles, lazily, predatory. "No," he says. "It's your blood, the magic in it. Like a drug, like the best high I can ever know." He curls a hand around Blackwood's wrist, presses a kiss into his palm. "Why do you think I chose you?" he asks. Nuzzles, takes in a deep breath. "That lovely, lovely blood," he whispers. 

Blackwood snorts. "I don't believe in magic," he tells Coward.

Coward raises an eyebrow, but somehow it's endearing instead of intimidating. Not that's he about to tell Coward that. "Then how do you explain me?"

"I don't have to," Blackwood replies, and leans in to kiss Coward silent.


End file.
